IX

Eleanore had not told her father why she had left her position with

Alfons Diruf. Nor did Jordan ask her why when he learned that she did

not wish to speak about it. He suspected that there was some

disagreeable incident back of it, and if he maintained a strict silence

it was because he feared his own wrath and grief.

She soon found another position. A schoolmate and good friend of hers,

Martha Degen, the daughter of the pastry-baker, had married Herr Ruebsam,

a notary public and an old man to boot. Eleanore visited the Ruebsams

occasionally, as did also her father; and in the course of conversation

it came out that Herr Ruebsam needed an assistant copyist. Since it was

then impossible to give Eleanore a desk in the office, she was allowed

to do all her work at home.

Friedrich Benda had also given her a cordial letter of recommendation to

Herr Bock, Counsellor of Archives, who was just then engaged in writing

a voluminous work on the history of Nuremberg. It would be her task to

arrange Herr Bock's muddled manuscript.

It was a laborious undertaking, but she learned a great deal from it.

Her thirsty mind would draw nourishment even from dry and lifeless

subjects.

She was seized with a desire to fill up the gaps in her education. She

begged Benda first for this book and then for that one. And after having

written the whole day long, she would often sit down and read until late

at night.

Everything she came in contact with she either assimilated or shook off:

she dragged nothing along in the form of surface impedimenta; it became

a part of her being, or she threw it to one side.

Daniel had not called for a long while. He was busy with the rehearsals

which Wurzelmann was conducting. Professor Doederlein was not to take

charge of the orchestra until it had been thoroughly drilled. The

programme was to consist of Daniel's works and the "Leonore Overture."

Wurzelmann referred to the Beethoven number as "a good third horse in

the team."

Daniel also had a lot of business to transact with the impresario

Doermaul: the company was to go on the road in March, and many things had

to be attended to. The contract he signed was for three years at a

salary of six hundred marks a year.

A few days before the public rehearsal he came to Jordan's with three

tickets: one for Jordan himself and the other two for the sisters. The

public rehearsal was quite like a regular concert; over a hundred

persons had been invited.

Jordan was just getting ready to go out. "That is fine, that is great: I

can hear some more music now. I am looking forward to the concert with

extreme pleasure. When I was a young fellow I rarely missed a concert.

But that was long ago; indeed, when I think it over I see how old I am.

The years pass by like milestones on the highway of life. Well, Daniel,

I thank you, thank you very much!"

Eleanore's joy was also great. As soon as her father had gone, she

remarked that Daniel had looked for Gertrude; but she had left the room

as soon as she saw him coming. Eleanore opened the door, and cried:

"Gertrude, come in, right away! I have a surprise for you."

After a while Gertrude came in.

"A ticket for you to Daniel's concert," said Eleanore, radiant with joy,

and handed her the green card of admission.

Gertrude looked at Eleanore; and she wanted to look at Daniel. But her

heavy glance, slowly rising from the floor, barely reached his face

before it returned to its downward position, aggrieved and pained. Then

she shook her head, and said: "A ticket for the concert? For me? Are you

serious, Eleanore?" Again she shook her head, amazed and indignant.

Whereupon she went to the window, leaned her arm against the cross bars,

and pressed her head against her arm.

Daniel followed her with looks of glowing anger. "You can take sheep to

the slaughter," he said, "you can throw thieves in a dungeon, you can

transport lepers to a hospital for incurables, but you cannot force an

emotional girl to listen to music."

He became silent; a pause ensued. Tortured at the thought that Daniel's

eyes were riveted on her back, Gertrude turned around, went to the

stove, sat down, and pressed her cheek against the Dutch tiles.

Daniel took two steps, stood by her side, and exclaimed: "But suppose I

request that you go? Suppose my peace of mind or something else of

importance to the world, consolation, liberation, or improvement,

depends on your going? Suppose I request that you go for one of these

reasons? What then?"

Gertrude had become as pale as death. She looked at him for a moment,

then turned her face to one side, drew up her shoulders as if she were

shivering with cold, and said: "Well--then--then--I'll go. But I will be

sorry for it ... sorry for it."

Eleanore was a witness to this scene. Her eyes, wide open when it began,

grew larger and larger as it advanced through its successive stages. As

she looked at Daniel a kindly, languishing moisture came to them, and

she smiled.

Daniel, however, had become vexed. He mumbled a good-bye and left.

Eleanore went to the window and watched him as he ran across the

square, holding his hat with both hands as a shield against the driving

wind.

"He is an amusing fellow," she said, "an amusing fellow."

She then lifted her eyes to the clouds, whose swift flight above the

church roof pleased her.

X

It was the original intention to begin the regular evening concert with

the third "Fidelio Overture." Doederlein was of the opinion that it

offered no special difficulties: the general rehearsal was to be devoted

primarily to the works of the novice. He raised his baton, and silence

filled the auditorium.

The "Nuremberg Serenade" opened with ensemble playing of the wind

instruments. It was a jovial, virile theme which the violins took up

after the wind instruments, plucked it to pieces in their capricious

way, and gradually led it over into the realm of dreams. The night

became living: a gentle summer wind blew, glow worms flitted about,

Gothic towers stood out in the sultry darkness, plebeian figures crept

into the narrow, angular alleys; it was night in Nuremberg. The

acclamation a glorious past with an admonition to the future fell upon

the smug complacency of the present, the heroic mingled with the jocose,

the fantastic with the burlesque, romanticism found its counterpart, and

all this was achieved through a flood of genuine melody in which

stodginess played no part, while charm was abundant in every turn and

tune.

The professional musicians were astonished; and their astonishment was

vigorously expressed in their criticisms. The general admiration, to be

sure, was somewhat deafened by the unpleasant end that the rehearsal was

destined to come to; but one critic, who enjoyed complete independence

of soul, though an unfortunate incident in his life had compelled him to

relinquish his influential circle in the city and retire to a limited

sphere of activity in the province, wrote: "This artist has the

unquestioned ability to become the light and leader of his generation.

Nature created him, his star developed him. May Heaven give him the

power and patience indispensable to the artist, if he would be born

again and become a man above the gifts of men. If he only does not reach

out too soon for the ripe fruits, and, intoxicated by the allurements of

the lower passions, fail to hear the voice of his heart! He has taken a

lofty flight; the azure gates of renown have swung wide open to him.

Let him only be cautious about his second descent into the night."

The same connoisseur found the composition of "Vineta" less ingenious,

and its instrumentation suffering from the lean experience of a

beginner. Yet even this work was strongly applauded. The impresario

Doermaul clapped his hands until the perspiration poured from his face.

Wurzelmann was beside himself with enthusiasm. Old Herold smiled all

over his face. The long-haired found it of course quite difficult to

subdue their jealousy, but even they were not stingy with their

recognition.

But how did Herr Carovius feel? His spittle had a bitter taste, his body

pained him. When Andreas Doederlein turned to the audience and bowed,

Carovius laughed a laugh of tremendous contempt. And Jason Philip

Schimmelweis? He would have felt much more comfortable if the

hand-clapping had been so much ear-boxing, and Daniel Nothafft, the

culprit, had been the objective. The boy who had been cast out had

become the leader of men! Jason Philip put his hand to his forehead,

shook his head, and was on the point of exclaiming, "Oh, ye deceivers

and deceived! Listen, listen! I know the boy; I know the man who has

made fools of you here this evening!" He waited to see whether the

misunderstanding, the colossal swindle, would not be cleared up

automatically. He did not wait in vain.

At the close of the "Serenade," Jordan was struck by Gertrude's feverish

paleness. He asked her whether she felt ill, but received no reply.

During the performance of the second piece she kept putting her hands to

her bosom, as if she were suffering from repressed convulsions. Her eyes

were now lifeless, now glowing with an uncanny fire. As soon as the

piece was finished, she turned to her father and asked him to take her

home. Jordan was frightened. Those sitting next to him looked at the

girl's pale face, sympathised with her, and made conventional remarks.

Eleanore wanted to go home too, but Gertrude whispered to her in her

imperious way and told her to stay. Familiar as she was with Gertrude's

disposition, she thought that it was simply a passing attack of some

kind, and regained her composure.

Daniel was standing at the door, talking to Benda and Wurzelmann. He was

very much excited; his two companions were trying to appease his

embitterment against Andreas Doederlein. "Ah, the man doesn't know a

thing about his profession," he exclaimed, and scorned all attempts to

effect a reconciliation between him and the leader of the orchestra.

"What is left of my compositions is debris only. He drags the time,

never even tries to make a _legatura_, scorns a _piano_ every time he

comes to one, pays no attention to _crescendos_, never retards--it is

terrible! My works cannot be played in public like that!"

Gertrude and her father passed by quickly and without greeting. Daniel

was stupefied. The lifeless expression in Gertrude's face unnerved him.

He felt as if he had been struck by a hammer, as if his own fate were

inseparably connected with that of the girl. Her step, her eyes, her

mouth were, he felt, a part of his own being. And the fact that she

passed by without even speaking to him, cold, reserved, hostile, filled

him with such intense anger that from then on he was not accountable for

what he did.

The flood of melody in Beethoven's great work was on the point of

pouring forth from the orchestra in all its exalted ruggedness. What

happened? There came forth instead a confused, noisy clash and clatter.

Daniel was seized with violent restlessness. It was hard enough to see

his own works bungled; to see this creation with its delicate soul and

titanic power, a work which he knew as he knew few things on this earth,

torn to tatters and bungled all around was more than he could stand. The

trumpet solo did not sound as though it came from some distant land of

fairy spirits: it was manifestly at the people's feet and it was flat.

He began to tremble. When the calm melancholy andante, completely robbed

of all measure and proportion by the unskilled hand of the leader and

made to dissipate in senseless sounds, reached his ear, he was beside

himself. He rushed on to the platform, seized the arm of the conductor

with his icy fingers, and shouted: "That is enough! That is no way to

treat a divine creation!"

The people rose in their seats. The instruments suddenly became silent,

with the exception of a cello which still whimpered from the corner.

Andreas Doederlein bounded back, looked at the mad man, his mouth as wide

as he could open it, laid the baton on the desk, and stammered: "By

Jupiter, this is unheard of!" The musicians left their places and

grouped themselves around the strange man; the tumult in the public grew

worse and worse. They asked questions, threatened, tried to set each

other at ease, scolded and raged. In the meantime Daniel Nothafft, his

head bowed, his back bent, stood there on the platform, glowing with

anger and determined to have his revenge.

A few minutes later, Andreas Doederlein was sitting at the table in the

musicians' waiting room. He looked like Emperor Barbarossa in

Kyffhaeuser. He had well founded reason to express his contempt for the

decadence and impiety of the youth of to-day. It was superfluous for him

to remark that a man who would conduct himself as Daniel had done should

be eliminated from the ranks of those who lay claim to the help and

consideration of sane people. The dignified gentlemen of the Orchestral

Union were of the same opinion; you could search the annals of history

from the beginning of time, and you would never find a case like this.

Mild eyes flashed, grey beards wagged. The deliberation was brief, the

sentence just. A committee waited on Daniel to inform him that his

compositions had been struck from the programme. The news spread like

wild-fire.

Who was happier than Jason Philip Schimmelweis?

He was like a man who gets up from the table with a full stomach, after

having sat down at it fearing lest he starve to death. On his way home

he whistled and laughed alternately and with well balanced proportion.

"There you see it again," he said to his daughter, as she walked along

at his side, "you see it again: you cannot get blood from a turnip any

more than you can get happiness from misery. A jackass remains a

jackass, a culprit a culprit, and loafing never fails to bring the

loafer to a disgraceful end. The Devil has a short but nimble tail; and

it makes no difference how slovenly he may conduct his business, his

recruits have got to pay the piper in the end. This will be a windfall

for mother. Let's hurry so that we can serve it to her while it's still

hot!"

And Philippina--she had never taken her eyes off the floor the entire

evening--seemed to be utterly unconscious of the fact at present that

she was surrounded by houses and people. She was a defeated woman; she

wanted to be. She had much to conceal; her young breast was a hell of

emotions, but her ugly, gloomy old face was as inanimate and empty as a

stone.

Herr Carovius waited at the gate. After all the other people had gone,

Daniel, Benda, Wurzelmann, and Eleanore came along. Daniel's storm cape

fluttered in the wind; his hat was drawn down over his eyes. Herr

Carovius stepped up before him.

"A heroic deed, my dear Nothafft," he miauled. "I could embrace you.

From this time on you can count me among your friends. Now stand still,

you human being transformed into a hurricane. I must say of course that

so far as your music is concerned, I am not with you. There is too much

hullaballoo in it, and not enough plain hellishness to suit me. But rid

this country of the whole tribe of Doederleins, and you will find that I

am your man. Not that I would invite you to take dinner with me, so that

you could have me make you a loan, not on your life. I am only a poor

musician myself. But otherwise I am at your service. I hope you sleep

well to-night--and get the hullaballoo out of your music just as soon as

you can."

He tittered, and then scampered away. Daniel looked at him with a

feeling of astonishment. Wurzelmann laughed, and said he had never seen

such a queer codger in all his life. All four stood there for a while,

not knowing exactly what to think, and in the meantime it was snowing

and raining. Asked by Benda where he wished to go, Daniel said he was

going home. But what could he do at home? Why couldn't he go home with

Benda? "No," said Daniel, "I can't do that: I am a burden to every one

to-day, including myself. Say, little servant, how are you feeling?" he

said, turning to Wurzelmann, "how about a drink or two?"

Wurzelmann, somewhat embarrassed, said that he had an engagement. There

was something repulsive in the way he declined the invitation.

"Ah, you, with your old engagement," said Daniel, "I don't give a hang

where you are going; I am going along."

"No, you're not, Daniel," cried Eleanore. And when Daniel looked at her

in astonishment, she blushed and continued: "You are not going with him;

he is going to see some women!"

The three young men laughed, and in her confusion Eleanore laughed too.

"How tragic you are, little Eleanore," said Daniel in a tone of unusual

flippancy, "what do you want me to do? Do you think that Wurzelmann and

I are just alike when it comes to an evening's amusement? Do you think

the earth claims me as soon as I see a tear?"

"Let him go," whispered Benda to the girl, "he is right. Don't bring an

artificial light into this darkness; it serves his purpose; let him do

with it as he pleases."

Eleanore looked at Benda with wide-opened eyes. "Darkness? What do you

mean? The fire then was merely a will-o'-the-wisp," she said, her eyes

shining with pride, "I see him full of light." Daniel had heard what she

said. "Really, Eleanore?" he asked with greedy curiosity.